


Ashes, Ashes, We all Fall Down

by hotrodngold (Krystalicekitsu)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles Has to Deal With Kurt Marko, Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Homophobic Language, Kurt Marko Was Not A Nice Man, Mental Coercion, Minor Character Death, Multi, Parent/Child Incest, Period-Typical Sexism, Physical Abuse, Rape Culture, Sexist Language, Transphobia, Verbal Abuse, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:51:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2056197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/hotrodngold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is five. Charles is five and he’s frightened and he hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes, Ashes, We all Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is not a happy fic. If you haven't before- _**GO READ THE WARNINGS**_. I will not take kindly to comments of 'why would you not tag' because I very very carefully combed through this fic to search out things which could be offensive or triggering.
> 
> This is not a rapefic. Let me clarify- this fic contains repeated child molestation by an authority figure in that child's life but the fic is _not about the rape_. This isn't a fic that will get you off, so if you're looking for rape fantasy fics, there's a tag for that. I am not writing that, I am writing what happens when a child is abused and forced to learn how to defend himself from people who should be defending him.
> 
> And since I shouldn't even have to say this, but someone will ask about it anyway- _I do not want to talk about my reasons for writing this fic_. They are my reasons. Mine alone. If you don't like the fic, there's the back button. If you don't think this fic is sexy enough, there's the back button. If you don't think this fic portrays your particular set of circumstances involving child molestation, rape, or abuse, _there's the back button_.
> 
>  
> 
> **I am not talking about my motivations for writing this fic, so do not ask.**
> 
>  
> 
> **That is final.**

Charles is five. Charles is five and he's frightened and he hurts. He's frightened and he hurts and his new daddy is angry and Mommy won't stop crying and he hurts. He hurts a lot and it won't stop and he doesn't understand why.

He hurts.

 

Charles is eight. Charles is eight and he's frightened and he hurts. He's frightened and he hurts and Father is angry again, always angry. He hurts and he thinks Mother should know, must know but she ignores him when he screams for her. He hurts everywhere and Mother doesn't come.

 

Charles is ten. Charles is ten and he's in agony and he can't stop the tears. Father's furious again (still). _Worthless fucking boy crying like a little cunt, like that worthless whore. Can't even hack it like a man, can you. Worthless shit._ Charles can't move and he wishes he could. He wants away almost more than anything but he can't do anything, can't move and it hurts to breathe. Charles is in agony and he's ten and it hurts.

 

Charles is twelve. Charles is twelve just today and it doesn't hurt all day. It doesn't hurt and Father smiles at him and Mother's at the glass again, but she kisses him, at least when he _tells_ her to and it doesn't hurt all day. Everyone goes home and he has presents and even a small slice of cake he's extra careful with- _don't spill it on yourself you stupid klutz, I bought you that shirt, you damn well respect it_ \- and he's starting to feel happy because it doesn't hurt. He gets into bed and closes his eyes and starts to fall asleep. Father's not happy. Father's furious and coming and Charles needs to hide, needs to get away to run but he barely makes it to the door before Father's there and screaming. And he's so angry, so full of hate that it _hurts_ and then Father grabs for him and his nightclothes rip and everything freezes. Charles is terrified. Charles feels the idea as it _-click. click. click_ -s into being and he's beyond terrified.

It nearly hurts _too_ much.

 

Charles is thirteen and a half. He is nearly a man and he can't wait until he can get out of this godforsaken house. He runs at night, laps and sprints, have to get _faster_ so he can run when he needs to. Charles hasn't been able to run fast enough yet. He keeps running. He keeps running, but there's something out there. No, there's something _in_ there, inside and Charles almost lets it go- _let it be a thief and he'll rob them and slit Father's throat when he goes to investigate and it'll be over_ \- but this is his house too and even here is better than the _fucking social workers who take you away and lock you up forever if you can't take it, you little shit_. This is his house and he goes to see who it is. And it's Mother, only Mother's never up this time of night and she's- Wrong. She's wrong, too young, hair too short and she- she doesn't _feel_ right and Charles puts his fists up and growls because this is his house and whoever this is, this isn't Mother.

Charles is startled and surprised and then fiercely relieved- _not the only one, not a freak, not alone_ \- when his mother becomes blue and a girl and short. Charles might've cried if that wasn't _so fucking weak, have to beat it out of you every. Damn. Time_ when he nearly crushes her in a hug with more emotion in it than he thinks he's felt in years.

Charles is so relieved he doesn't think about what he whispers in her ear- _stay, you're not alone anymore and we need to stick together_ \- or how he'll make that work or what will happen tomorrow. Charles is thirteen and a half and he's beginning to think that things might not always be pain and fear. Maybe this 'happiness' might exist somewhere, too.

 

Charles is fifteen. Charles is fifteen and lifting weights _like a fucking proper man should_. He still hurts. He'll hurt for a few days. But that's okay because he doesn't have to sit to use the bench press and his shoulders are too skinny anyway. Charles hurts but it doesn't matter because one more year and he'll be gone. One more year and his advisors know that Oxford- _another fucking continent_ \- will accept him, the genius kid from the rich family willing to never leave the city if it means he gets his degrees faster.

Charles thinks his life is like the bench press in his more morose and oddly hopeful days. At first the bar was too heavy for him to lift without anything on it. But he got better and better and now he can lift it off his chest with 136lbs on it without breaking a sweat. And sometimes he might get too tired from lifting it all up all the time and it all presses back down on him, but then he just has to go slowly and save his strength because, eventually, he'll be out from under the weight and free to do anything he wants. He just has to wait.

 

Charles is nearly sixteen. Charles is two months away from turning sixteen and he's furious. He's furious and his cheek stings but he doesn't even notice it. He's furious and enraged and Raven is behind him, he in front of her, between her and Father and his knuckles smart. He's furious and it fills up his chest, skitters up his spine and it feels _so. good._ he doesn't know what to do with it. Father is before him, wiping his mouth incredulously and Charles is enraged.

This is Raven. No one touches Raven and Charles will make sure this is understood if he has to, will use pain and ugly brutality if he has to, beat that man bloody to do it because this is Raven. This is Raven and they _have to stick together_. This is his sister, the only family worth naming, and if Kurt _decides to touch her again, you'll regret it for the rest of your pathetic life._

Charles is nearly sixteen and the first blow doesn't hurt hardly at all but even if it didn't, even if it hurt as bad as the things that happen only at night, it wouldn't matter because this is Raven and no one is more important.

Charles is nearly sixteen and he manages to stay standing for most of it and doesn't even register when the solid tromp of shoes leaves or when the plush Persian carpet rises up to meet him or when Raven frantically calls his name.

 

Charles is nearly sixteen. Charles is two very short weeks from turning sixteen and he's furiously making plans. Charles needs to get out, but Raven needs to get out more and he needs to see to that before anything else. Charles learns patience in the short term under his sister's helpful suggestions and _practices_. He sits in an ice cream parlor with her done up in pretty blonde curls and thinks. No, he _thinks_.

He _thinks_ at the man across the street until he's walking in a perfect circle. He _thinks_ at the lady with the sack of groceries until she screams in frustration because she can't find the bright blue car in front of her. He _thinks_ at the girl in the coffee shop until Raven says she can't eat another scone and then he does it once more because he can. He _thinks_ until it hurts, and he knows that every Friday the businessman up the street pays 15$ to get his cock sucked by a blond guy down on 5th before going back to his wife and his two kids. Until he can recite the song that's been stuck in their waitress' head for days backwards and forwards. Until he finds himself replying to Raven in French because the customer two tables over won't _shut the fuck up about French homework_.

Charles is nearly, _nearly_ sixteen and he can make a dog follow after the man who beats it and make the man hold still and let himself be bitten and read the paper through another person's eyes and convince a woman that her clothes are really snakes and make the man five buildings down tell the priest about beating his wife and his children and about fucking his neighbor. He can touch minds three cities over and then five and six and then half the state and the state after and he has to stop because he's exhausted and it's dark and the clerk is closing up and he has a fucking headache that drills and screeches in his ear with every step he takes. Charles is nearly sixteen and he's almost ready. He's almost ready except the acceptance letter from Oxford said he'd need 20 pounds for the admittance fee and the flights across the Atlantic were 200$ each.

Charles is nearly sixteen and he goes home and Kurt hands him seven hundred dollars with a smile completely empty.

 

Charles is seventeen. His mother is dead. He gets the information by post and it's (bad) luck that the funeral is in the middle of Holiday break. He tells Raven. They go.

Charles watches the funeral numbly. He almost wishes he were sad, but he can't be because his only good memories of his mother are five short years. Five years do not compare with those other twelve years. Charles watches them lower her into the ground, detached, and says his thanks the same way. He shakes hands and nods as he should.

His fingers are cold. He should've brought gloves.

They go back to the house and eat pastries and drink wine and Charles thinks _it's half over_ and then hates himself for it because it wasn't her fault- _except how it was_ \- and she didn't ask for it- _except how she married him_. Charles is seventeen and he watches his mother's people leave through the door numbly.

He goes to get his coat- Raven's back at the hotel already-

and he remembers this, remembers hurting, but everything's spinning and his stomach doesn't like this and it's hard to think except how he notices he's being drug along- _freak, thought you could screw me out of my money, thought I'd just let you get away with it, it's mine you faggoty **freak**_ \- and how hard the floor is under his cheek- _tile because Mother thought it looked elegant and Old World_ \- and that his trousers are missing.

It's agony again and he would say that he's missed this just for the nostalgia but he doesn't remember it hurting this _much_ and he must be going soft and has Raven had dinner yet?

Charles is seventeen and he wakes up half a mile out of town on the side of the road and everything hurts. He swears he's never coming back.

 

Charles is twenty. Charles is twenty when he gets the post from his family's lawyer and he wants to bloody dance because the bastard is finally dead. Instead he grins savagely and Raven looks wary next to him when she notices but reflects his grin, if with more relief and tears, when he tells her.

He books the first flight out.

They get there early enough to stop the grand funeral arrangements and refund the money to the estate. Kurt-bloody-motherfucking-Marko is burned by the county in a pine box and disposed of with the rest of the trash.

Charles is back on a trans-Atlantic flight before the ovens are even prepped.

 

Charles is twenty-three. Charles is twenty-three and has his Masters and his freedom. Charles has his degrees and the money he stole back from His Mother's Greatest Fuck Up and a sister he loves and who loves him and there's nothing anyone can take from him or do to him and Charles-

doesn't know what to do.

Charles can't remember not working towards something.

Charles goes back to America.

And back to England.

And to France.

And Hong Kong.

And Belize.

Germany.

He's looking for something. Charles is twenty-five and just now aware he's looking for something. Something that he isn't finding. Something that he (maybe) lost when he turned twelve years old.

 

Charles is twenty-six and in a pub (but in America they call them 'bars' and he always gets carded because he looks like he's twelve and he doesn't care to always _think_ at them). There's a girl with bright red hair and clear blue eyes and Charles is enamored with her. They talk and talk and Charles can't stop thinking about her. And she can't stop thinkin-

_anything, anything yes yes, love me, please, give anything to be you, to be free, to be powerful, to have a dick be a man-_

-Charles blanches. Makes his excuses. Leaves.

Charles goes back to Oxford, barely enough time to re-enroll.

 

Charles is twenty-eight. Charles is twenty-eight and has his PhD. Charles is now _Dr Charles Xavier_ and makes Raven giggle whenever he introduces himself as such. He says it every time he knows she's going to phone. She giggles every time. Except once.

Charles is twenty-eight and his sister has been contacted by the CIA.

 

A car meets him at the airport. It's not Raven. It's not his driver. The man in the back of the cab tells the driver to take them to the mansion. He tells Charles that they _need to talk_. What he means is: _freak, is he reading my mind now? sister said he could do it, could be lying, all lying, why, wouldn't make a difference, does he know, is he Shaw's, can he find him, can he use Cerebro, none of us can, find Shaw and find the threat, sister- freak- could help, telepath could help_. Charles closes his eyes in a daze. Charles has never seen thoughts so regimented that weren't his sister's or his own.

But the man says nothing further, thinks in circles of _is he reading my thoughts, can he do it, is he Shaw's_ all the way to the mansion where Raven opens the door and invites them in and makes tea and Charles wishes she wouldn't hide, but doesn't resent her the ability to escape.

Charles is twenty-eight and a man in a black suit and black gloves tells him he's going to make his country proud, _god, do I have to work with them every day, freaks, need to decontaminate myself after this_.

 

Charles is twenty-eight and in the employ of the CIA for ten weeks and three days and his list is nearly complete. Charles knows who Sebastian Shaw is and which of the pawns on the board are his and has dutifully handed this information over to his handlers who sneer and condescend to him behind polite smiles as if he doesn't know that when they say 'get back to you' they mean _five more weeks til we drop you in a fucking hole and bury the whole goddamned problem_.

Charles is twenty-eight and has spent the last ten weeks and three days compiling a list of every single human who knows who and what he is. He nearly has the last name, but only a few people know that name and he has to be face-to-face _damnit, need more practice, need a larger range, so fucking **worthless**_ to read someone deeply enough to get something they're not thinking about.

Charles is twenty-eight and has spent the last ten weeks and three days gathering the information that gets him a spot on a boat in the middle of the ocean, waiting for a yacht to carry Sebastian Shaw into their hands.

 

Charles is twenty-eight when he dives into the black, open waters of the ocean to meet one Erik Lehnsherr.

Five minutes after a freezing dive and a game of mental tug-of-war and heated, passionate entireties of _you're not alone_ finds Charles Xavier trying to convince someone he's never met that joining a covert government group to go after an enemy he'd been fairly good at finding on his own is a good idea when he's one name and five weeks from cutting ties with them himself.

Charles tries not to let the irony get to him.

But he's entranced by Erik, by his power and surety which Charles has never had- and will never have- himself. Charles is entranced enough to want to _think_ at him, but he understands instinctively that Erik must stay of his own volition or he won't only lose him, but set himself a great enemy.

Charles tries not to let his lack of immediate success put him off.

At least Erik is coming back to compare notes.

 

Five minutes, thirty-four hours and twenty three seconds later find Charles cursing himself even as he tries to make Erik stay on with a doomed project.

Really.

 _What_ is he thinking. _I need him, someone like me, stronger than me, sure of himself, **need** him, make him stay, must stay, needs to be here, **has** to be here_

But Charles understands that too much force works exactly like too little honey, so Charles does something he's never done before; he says his peace.

And then he walks away.

 

Charles has to hide his fierce grin behind a wide cup of atrocious coffee the next morning when Erik settles across from him with bacon and eggs.

 

Charles is just barely twenty eight and four days after Erik doesn't leave, Charles is called upon to be _the telepath_ again. Charles hates and love when this happens. The first three times were nearly too much _actually_ too much, but he clung to Raven's mental call to keep himself in his body and the fourth time didn't feel like diamonds eating his eyes and the fifth time was even less like claws tearing at his skin and by the seventh time he could distance himself from his body while he was doing it so that he just got the high of being all that his abilities would let him be.

Cerebro excites him.

Cerebro makes his thoughts _dance_ and it's almost like being a god, all the wonderful _power_ and it's only that last name that stops him from popping the skull of every bureaucrat and scientist in the nine hundred square miles Cerebro lets him see.

He can never stop that first harsh exhale of a laugh when the pain falls back to a muzzy roar behind the brush of so many minds. He's aware of the sharp, sudden sing of a nearby mind at that, the tightening of the feeling of cool metal, an alertness that wasn't there and then _what did it do, is he alright, what are the verdammt humans doing_ and a string of _oh god, oh god, oh god, Charles, oh god_ that is always Raven, his beautiful Raven.

Charles is twenty eight and king of the world.


End file.
